


it's just the sun in your eyes

by orphan_account



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Shower Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 10:58:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why do you keep lube in your shower?” Adam blurts out.</p><p>Ronan pauses in the middle of squeezing it over his fingers. He raises an eyebrow.</p><p>“Why <i>don’t</i> you keep lube in your shower?” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	it's just the sun in your eyes

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes when you've got writer's block you just need to sit down and write some porn

There are many things Adam likes about Monmouth Manufacturing. He might not ever want to move in, but he can appreciate its many perks anyway. For instance: the shower. There’s hot water 24/7. The water pressure is amazing. There are two different showerheads, which is really all kinds of excessive, and _of course_ Gansey explicitly decided on installing two separate showerheads when he renovated Monmouth. Gansey probably has six in his fancy mansion back in D.C.

Using said shower used to fill Adam with guilt—a visceral reminder of just how different he was from the rest of the boys at Aglionby. It used to remind him of the fact that when he went back (to the double wide, to his room in St. Agnes) all he had was a heating system that only occasionally worked and a trickle of water that could barely wipe away the oil he inevitably got caked with after a long day at work. He felt, standing under the spray of hot water that he did not deserve, that all the fancy showers in the world could never wash away the dirt under his fingernails.

Part of him still feels that way, but it’s faded into the background by now.

Dating Ronan Lynch helped, he thinks. It’s hard to have negative thoughts about a shower after extracting yourself from a warm bed with a hand tugging at your T-shirt, telling you to come back to bed for just another five minutes. It’s hard to be bitter when barely a minute into your shower Ronan comes shuffling into the bathroom, eyes still half-closed, looking delightfully rumpled as he tries to apply toothpaste onto a toothbrush and misses twice before he manages to actually brush his teeth.

It’s hard to be upset, Adam thinks, because he knows what’s coming next: he can feel blood thrumming in his veins with anticipation as Ronan slides the shower door open, steps inside behind Adam, presses up against him, Adam’s back against Ronan’s chest, the curve of Ronan’s cock already starting to stir against Adam’s hip.

“Good morning to you too,” Adam says, amused. Ronan buries his face into Adam’s shoulder, lets his arms snake around Adam’s front. He mumbles something unintelligible into Adam’s skin, and Adam lets Ronan stay like that, the spray of hot water falling over the both of them.

“You wake up too fucking early, Parrish,” Ronan says at last, lifting his head so his chin is resting on Adam’s shoulder instead.

“It’s nine-thirty,” Adam says, smiling.

“It’s a _Saturday_ ,” Ronan mutters.

Adam turns around in the span of Ronan arms so that they’re facing each other. Ronan’s trying for unamused, Adam knows, but there’s a quirk to his lips that betrays him, and Adam kisses him because there really isn’t anything else to be done. It starts out simple, chaste, but it turns intense before he even realizes it—just like everything else about Ronan, Adam thinks. He tastes Ronan’s toothpaste on his tongue, minty-fresh.

Ronan pushes him against the wall of the shower, the spray of water hitting them directly. He pins Adam’s hands above his head, chases the line of Adam’s throat with his lips. There’s going to be a hickey there later, Adam thinks; it’s going to be a pain in the ass to cover it up for school on Monday, but in this exact moment he can’t quite bring himself to care.

“Wanna fuck you,” Ronan mutters. Something electric crawls up Adam’s spine.

“Really, Ronan? Shower sex?” Adam says, teasing. “What porno have you been watching this time?”

“Your face,” Ronan says, which is really not as eloquent as he usually is, but that’s probably because of the way Adam’s rutting up against Ronan’s thigh, moving his hips in leisurely circles in the way he knows for a fact drives Ronan completely out of his mind.

“Fuck, _Adam_ ,” Ronan breathes. “You’re so—”

Adam kisses him, then, because he doesn’t think he wants to hear what Ronan has to say. He doesn’t want to hear whatever compliment’s about to fall from Ronan’s lips— _beautiful, amazing, miraculous_ —because he still doesn’t think he deserves it. Ronan lets go of his wrists, and he puts his fingers against Ronan’s face, frames it in his hands, pushes his tongue against Ronan’s teeth.

Ronan breaks away, flushed all the way down to his chest.

“Can I,” he says.

“ _Yes_ ,” Adam breathes.

Then Ronan’s moving away, and Adam stays pressed against the wall, watches as Ronan gets something from the shower shelf, which is—

“Why do you keep lube in your shower?” Adam blurts out.

Ronan pauses in the middle of squeezing it over his fingers. He raises an eyebrow.

“Why _don’t_ you keep lube in your shower?” he says.

And then he’s moving back, crowding Adam against the wall, and whatever Adam was going to say in response immediately dies out in his throat.

“Turn around,” Ronan whispers into his ear, his voice low.

Adam shivers, complies, turns around and braces one hand against the tiles.

He feels Ronan’s hand skim across his back, his touch feather-light, fingers leaving goosebumps in their wake. He pauses in the dip of Adam’s spine, draws nonsense patterns there before dipping even lower, and—

Adam lets his forehead fall against the wall as Ronan’s finger pushes inside. He exhales shakily, and Ronan’s free hand comes up to press against Adam’s chest, holding him in place. _I’ve got you_ , he doesn’t say, but Adam feels it anyway in his touch. Ronan’s fingers are thick, but his touch is nothing but gentle as he fingers Adam, slowly, carefully. _It’s Saturday_ , he’d said. They have all the time in the world. Adam presses against the shower wall, but the tiles are slippery, and his fingers scrabble for purchase as Ronan pushes inside of him, one finger, then two, pressing in deep as Adam gasps and trembles.

“ _Ronan_ ,” Adam moans, desperate.

“Yeah, babe,” Ronan answers. He leans forward, presses a kiss against Adam’s neck, and for everything that is blunt and ungentle about Ronan, he is always painfully careful when he’s with Adam. He’s thorough when he prepares Adam, stretches him until he’s loose and relaxed, until he’s practically rutting up against the shower wall, hard and desperate.

“God, Ronan,” he’s moaning, too frantic to even care about the way his voice cracks on Ronan’s name. “Hurry up and fuck me already, please, _god_ —”

Adam hisses as Ronan removes his fingers abruptly. Ronan kisses his shoulder, an apology. His runs his hands down Adam’s sides, lets them rest against Adam’s hips, holding them in place. He hears more than sees Ronan fumble with the bottle of lube, and Adam is _shaking_ in anticipation, he knows, and any other time he’d hate being reduced to a trembling pile of nothing but it’s Ronan who’s pressing him against the wall, who’s mouthing at his ear as he pushes in, slowly, so achingly slow, and Adam gasps because it feels so much like a _yes_.

Ronan fucks him slowly, the hot spray of water running between the both of them. Ronan’s hands press Adam against the wall, fingers digging into the skin there. Ronan gasps and moans, whispers into Adam’s good ear, tells him in excruciating detail how good he feels, how hot and tight he is. Ronan thrusts into Adam, and Adam’s head is spinning, both from the rhythm of Ronan’s hips and from the hot water that’s misting up the walls.

Adam lets one hand drift down, stroking himself. Ronan knocks his hand away, replaces Adam’s hand with his own, and Adam throws his head back and _groans_.

“Fuck, Adam,” Ronan’s saying. The rhythm of his hips is starting to stutter, uneven; he’s close, Adam knows. He clenches down, and Ronan swears, lets his forehead fall against Adam’s shoulder.

“Come with me,” he says. His hands are blunt against Adam’s skin; his breath is hot against Adam’s neck.

“ _Ronan_ ,” he gasps, and then he’s coming, messy and sticky over Ronan’s hand. The spray of water washes it away, and it doesn’t take long before Ronan comes too, pressed against Adam’s back and murmuring Adam’s name against his ear.

Adam’s legs are trembling, threatening to give out under him, but Ronan’s hands are still on him, firm and strong, holding him up. They’re pressed together close enough for Adam to feel every rise and fall of Ronan’s chest, for Ronan’s shaky breaths to fan out, hot, against Adam’s skin.

“That was,” Adam says.

“Yeah,” Ronan says.

They stay like that for a long time, listening to each other breathe over the running water. Later, Ronan will insist on helping Adam shampoo his hair; later, Adam will help Ronan wash his back, running his fingers over the lines of Ronan’s tattoo. Later, they will turn off the water, dry each other off, get dressed, grab breakfast, curl up against each other on Ronan’s bed and pretend that nothing else matters in the world: no Cabeswater, no dreams, no Glendower. That Adam doesn’t have a job to run to later, that Ronan won’t try to do something stupid and reckless that could potentially get himself killed. That there are things so much bigger than the both of them; that the future hangs over them, inevitable and terrifying.

For now, though, for now they just hold each other under the spray of water, and for now, maybe that’s enough.


End file.
